


headfirst, fearless

by carnival_papers



Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of Taylor Swift, Oral Sex, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 14:15:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4525143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnival_papers/pseuds/carnival_papers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s just driving. He’s just driving and listening to Taylor Swift while Javert touches his dick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	headfirst, fearless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ConstanceComment](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstanceComment/gifts).



> this was a pinch hit. it probably shows. 
> 
> sorry constance, sorry victor hugo, sorry taylor swift, sorry mom and dad, sorry god.

They’ve been driving down I-20 for what feels like an eternity when Javert unbuckles his seatbelt. It barely registers with Valjean because he’s so focused on the road and the music that’s playing—a Taylor Swift CD of Cosette’s that’s been stuck in the player for months, which he had at first listened to begrudgingly but has, in the time since, sort of come to love. So he’s singing along to a song about dancing in the rain, and Javert is unbuckling his seatbelt and probably laughing at him. Not unusual. Distantly, Valjean figures that Javert is going to lean the seat back and nap, since they’ve got God knows how many hours left in the car before they finally get to the Piney Woods.

Instead, Javert sits up and drums his fingers on the armrest before pushing it up and reaching across the seat to put a hand on Valjean’s thigh. That’s new. Valjean feels his face get hot all of a sudden, like it always does. He should probably be used to Javert touching him so easily by now—they’ve been dating, or something, for a few months—but it always takes him by surprise.

“Hi,” Valjean says. It’s been quiet in the car for a while, minus the singing, and this is a little unexpected.

Javert looks smug. “Are you tired of driving yet?” he says. It doesn’t sound like a question. He’s rubbing his hand up and down Valjean’s thigh, fingers pressing in gently but insistently. Valjean’s skin bristles beneath his khakis, toes curling over the gas pedal within his socks and sandals.

Valjean clears his throat and eases the car into the left lane, adjusts the cruise control. “Well, there are—certainly more exciting things I could be doing. But I’ll survive.” Valjean says, tapping a finger against the steering wheel. “You’re getting antsy.”

“I am prone to antsiness, yes,” Javert says. A pause, his hand still moving. Then, abruptly: “You should unbuckle your seatbelt.”

“What? No, that’s dangerous.” Valjean laughs, and it’s all choked in his throat, and Javert is drawing lines down Valjean’s thigh with just his fingertips now. They have, occasionally, gotten physical in the car—Valjean remembers kissing Javert in a parking lot, once, and of course they’ve held hands while driving. “And it’s illegal,” Valjean adds, dropping a hand from the steering wheel and placing it over Javert’s.

“I’m not gonna arrest you, come on.” Even without looking, Valjean knows Javert has rolled his eyes.

Valjean squeezes Javert’s hand with his own. Somehow, Javert’s hands are clammy even though it’s roughly 300 degrees outside. “Well, thank you for that reassurance, really.” Still, he doesn’t give in, if only because it’s more than a little entertaining to watch Javert squirm. He has a one-track mind, and even though Valjean isn’t sure what track he’s on, he likes to watch Javert try and distract himself.

Javert huffs, gets still and quiet for a while, his fingers still splayed across Valjean’s thigh. Taylor is singing about love stories, _baby just say yes_ , and Javert turns his hand beneath Valjean’s, intertwining their fingers. This is more Valjean’s speed—hand-holding, easy touching like this. There’s nothing to focus on but the feel of Javert lifting Valjean’s hand and suddenly kissing his knuckles. The landscape outside the windows is desolate, the highway empty and stretching on forever.

Okay, this works. There’s cruise control, there’s air conditioning, there’s a million miles of road and there’s Javert’s mouth on Valjean’s hand. And there’s Taylor Swift. Javert’s seatbelt is still unbuckled, and Valjean isn’t sure what Javert is angling for with all this, but maybe it doesn’t really matter. In a few more hours, they’ll be in the woods and camping, and they have the whole weekend to think about nothing. They’ll smell like pine needles for weeks.

And then there’s a click, and Valjean’s seatbelt is retracting across his waist. He nearly slams on the brakes out of impulse, but Javert’s got a hand on Valjean’s thigh again, a fingertip tracing down the seam of Valjean’s pants. Valjean shakes his hand away from Javert’s mouth and shoots him a glance that he hopes looks irritated. In truth, the attention is kind of nice, since the drive is so boring.

Valjean gets both hands on the wheel again after shrugging the seatbelt off. He can’t remember ever driving without a seatbelt on. He’s a very safe driver, and he’s in the car with a cop and neither of them are wearing seatbelts. Javert’s fingers drift again, this time to Valjean’s inner thigh, where the material of his khakis has been rubbed thin and soft. Valjean’s muscles tense immediately. “I’m driving,” he says, a little embarrassed by how his voice wavers.

Javert laughs. “Good. Keep driving.”

So Valjean keeps driving, because it’s not like he has a choice, really, there’s nowhere to go out here, and when it comes down to it, he doesn’t really mind Javert touching him. He digs his nails into the steering wheel when Javert touches his inner thigh again, and he spreads his legs just a little, just to let Javert’s touch wander a little further.

But Javert takes him by surprise when he leans over, across the emergency brake and the gear selector, and kisses Valjean’s neck. Okay. Valjean grips the wheel and now his palms are the ones sweating. “Do I need to pull over?” he manages to say, foot trembling above the brake pedal.

“Not if you want to get there before dark.”

Valjean exhales, low and slow, and tries to calm down. They’ve kissed in the car before—not while it was moving, of course, not while Valjean was driving—but they’ve sort of done this before, it shouldn’t be as overwhelming as it is. Javert’s mouth is soft and open on Valjean’s neck, his cheek, and it’s hard not to turn into the kiss. Javert is teasing him. It is extremely rude.

He almost swerves when Javert touches his dick over his khakis. He’s not expecting it, and, furthermore, he’s _driving_ , and generally, Javert does not touch his dick while driving. He takes a sharp breath in and tries to ignore Javert laughing and Taylor, poor girl, singing about one of the many boys who has broken her heart. As far as he knows, Taylor does not have any songs about dicks getting touched while driving. Right now, he kind of wishes she did, because maybe then he would know what to do.

“Do you want me to stop?” Javert asks. This time, it’s a question. Javert is good about asking, when it matters. His fingers are light, barely there but _definitely_ still there.

Valjean breathes again. It takes more effort than it should, and he is feeling a little like he’s back in high school with the way he’s getting so hard so fast. “No,” Valjean says. “Clearly.”

Javert kisses his neck again and touches Valjean with a little more pressure this time. “I wouldn’t want to presume,” Javert says, “you know that.”

There it is—the reason Valjean even tolerates Javert. He’s thoughtful, or can be, and he has warm and easy hands, and he has never minded going slow with all this. Valjean loosens his grip on the steering wheel, turns his cheek so Javert can kiss him there one more time.

“You’re not presuming,” Valjean starts, but then Javert is working his hand over Valjean’s dick again, making slow, long strokes over the khakis. If they were at home, they’d be undressed by now, probably. Valjean switches lanes around a slow-moving semi, careful to keep his foot steady on the gas even as Javert’s pace quickens. “I don’t know if I can,”—a deep breath—“do this and drive,” he says.

Javert gets his fingers at the waistband of Valjean’s pants and deftly unbuttons them. “You don’t have to do anything,” Javert says. “Just watch the road.” Then he’s slipping a hand inside Valjean’s pants, over his briefs, and touching his dick, still leaning across the console between the seats. Valjean’s foot slips and he taps the brake, the car behind him honking and swerving around.

Valjean starts sputtering as he corrects for his mistake. “I’m going to kill both of us. You’re going to kill both of us, and probably some innocent bystander, because you’re—”

He can’t bring himself to actually say it out loud, so he gestures at his lap with a waving hand. Javert laughs at him again, then apologizes for laughing. But he doesn’t stop his hand, only moves it for a moment to yank Valjean’s zipper down, then gets back to touching. Valjean is pretty sure he’s fully hard now, and also pretty sure he is going to, quite literally, die of embarrassment if anyone ever finds out about this, or, God forbid, he makes eye contact with another driver while Javert’s hand is in his pants.

Somehow, as Taylor is waxing poetic about princesses and fairytales, the situation gets even more dire. Javert works Valjean’s dick out of the front of his briefs and it is skin on skin. He’s never been able to keep very still when Javert touches him here—it’s all still new and he’s still not used to it.

He tries not to think about it too much. He’s just driving. He’s just driving and listening to Taylor Swift while Javert touches his dick. There has never been anything more normal than this.

“This is okay?” Javert asks, as he’s wrapping his fingers around Valjean.

“Not the best time to ask questions,” Valjean says. He’s clutching the steering wheel, fists so tight that he can see the veins on his forearms. Momentarily, he thinks he’ll be fine, but then Javert starts stroking his dick, and that thought flies out the window. “Jesus,” he breathes.

It is so, so hard to keep still. In bed, he wriggles under Javert’s touch, because every sensation is overwhelming and kind and gentle. He takes big gasping breaths between Javert’s kisses, and Javert laughs into his skin, and they touch slowly, figuring each other out. But here—God, as soon as Javert starts moving his hand like that, Valjean thinks he’s either going to crash the car or totally lose it right then. It’s good, and it’s sudden and it’s strange and it’s new, but mostly it’s good. He tilts his hips a little, finds he’s biting his bottom lip without even realizing it. He’s used to being able to thrust into Javert’s hand when they do this. But he can’t, and if he does, the car will lurch forward, and probably they will die, and the obituary will be something too embarrassing for Cosette to read.

“Relax,” Javert says, loosening his hand. Valjean doesn’t say how ridiculous that is, for Javert to tell him to relax, when _this_ is happening. So he just takes measured breaths and doesn’t ask questions when Javert leans further over. The traffic ahead is thinning out, thank God, and Javert is—well. Valjean isn’t entirely sure what Javert is doing, because he’s focusing on the road. The road is, as it has been for the past few hours, long and mostly empty and boring.

And then there’s Javert’s tongue on his dick, wet and unexpected, and he jerks the steering wheel so hard the car swerves onto the rumble strips for half a second. Javert has a hand at the base of his dick, where the fabric of his briefs meets skin, and Javert is holding there, steady, as he licks again. Valjean keeps the steering wheel still this time, but it is a task, takes more physical restraint than he ever thought possible. He wants to put a hand in Javert’s hair, but he would probably lose control of the car then, so he decides against it.

He’s never been able to relax when Javert has done this to him, and this is no different, except for that _of course_ it’s different. There’s a truck in the lane next to them, and Valjean wonders if they can see inside the windows, if they can see Javert’s head in his lap, Javert’s tongue, his dick out. He almost wants to ask Javert if this is against the law—Javert would know, absolutely, if it’s a moving violation or if it’s one of those legal gray areas. He wants to know but he doesn’t want to know. He wants to think about anything except Javert’s tongue on his dick. He tries to think about Taylor Swift. He mumbles the line about short skirts and t-shirts under his breath while Javert wets his lips again.

Javert closes his mouth around Valjean and Valjean is so shocked by it that he freezes. He silently thanks God for cruise control and swallows hard as Javert’s head begins to bob in his lap. Javert is quiet and intent, his head occasionally brushing against Valjean’s arm, all the familiar noises of their bed muffled by road sounds and pop-country guitars. There is heat pooling in the bottom of his stomach and spilling out into his muscles, up to into his lungs, and he is sure that if he thinks too long about this, he will either stop breathing or lose control of the car.

His breath grows shorter and shallower as Javert speeds his pace. Javert is good at this—were it not for the rumble of the engine and the speed limit signs, Valjean might be able to forget that he is driving. He wants so badly to move, to roll his hips against Javert’s mouth and listen to the sounds he makes. And he wants to touch Javert, too—stroke the nape of his neck or hold his hand or draw his fingers across Javert’s shoulders.

Javert flicks his tongue over the head of Valjean’s dick and Valjean hears himself moan. It feels wrong to be doing that in the car, but he can’t stop himself. Javert seems encouraged by it, since he repeats the action again, drawing more noises out of Valjean.

Valjean tries to keep calm. He is certainly not the first person who has ever received— _this_ —while driving. Probably they were all fine, and probably they did not crash their cars and die horrible, embarrassing deaths. Probably.

He accidentally floors it when Javert takes him, _all_ of him, into his mouth. Of course, he over-corrects, slams on the brakes, and Javert’s head knocks against the steering wheel, honking the horn as he does so. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Valjean stammers, out of breath, sort of fearing for his life. Javert is unfazed, and Valjean wonders what has gotten into him for him to be so unconcerned with their impending demises. But—oh, _God_ , it does feel really, really good.

So he gives in to the feeling. Checks and double-checks that the cruise control is set before planting his feet in the floorboard and letting his body move. He twitches, his calves and hips, muscles all tightening and relaxing out of turn. Valjean lets one hand rest on Javert’s back, if only so he has somewhere to dig his fingers when the surge of heat pulses through him. His shoulders bend back into the seat and he tries, tries to catch his breath. He wants to close his eyes and let this happen. It would be so easy.

It never takes long for him to get wound up when Javert does this. At home, they would already be cleaning up by now, or he would be reciprocating, touching Javert with his shaky, unsure hands and watching Javert beam at each touch. He wants, as he always wants, to see Javert’s face, and to kiss Javert, to hold onto him when he finally comes. But he’s got to drive, and he hates Javert for being so cruel and teasing and for making it so good, too.

He is close—he feels it in the pit of his stomach. His muscles are tight like he’s got a cramp, and Javert is back to moving more slowly now, agonizingly so. Valjean almost begs him, _please, please_ , but he cannot form the words. The traffic ahead is slowing down, and he can’t see why, if there’s a wreck or road work or what. This is bad timing. He is too close, he cannot be trusted not to step on the brake again. His fingers are trembling on Javert’s back. Javert must know how close he is. But he shows no mercy, works even more slowly, makes Valjean’s jaw clench and makes him gasp for more air. There is never enough air.

Of course, then he sees it, why the traffic is slowing down. Flashing lights up ahead of them, red and blue. Bad timing. Bad timing. Taylor is demanding that a boy tell her why and Valjean echoes it mentally: _why why why why why why_. He can hardly keep his foot on the brake pedal long enough to slow down, and then Javert speeds up again, because he is cruel, and Valjean shouts, “Hold on hold on hold on,” rapid-fire, because he does not want to come in front of any cop that is not Javert.

Valjean is sure they are going to get pulled over. He is absolutely certain that he is going to explain to a state trooper that, no, officer, he did not intend to drive recklessly, and that he would be happy to pay that ticket, and also probably to die a slow, painful, less embarrassing death.

He’s able to hold out until they get just past the cop car, when he exhales, “Okay,” and Javert reaches to steady the steering wheel before finishing him off. Valjean manages to keep himself mostly collected as he comes, only closing his eyes for a second. All the breath goes out of him, and he feels Javert swallowing around his dick, which is always indescribable and always better than he expects. His hand shakes around the steering wheel, but he’s able to keep between the lines, if only barely.

Javert very slowly lifts his head and gently, quickly fixes Valjean’s briefs and pants, fingers lingering on the button for just a moment. Then, as he is pulling away, he grabs at the seatbelt and tugs it over Valjean’s waist. Valjean cannot keep himself from laughing when he hears it click.

“Well,” Valjean says, because he doesn’t know what to say. He steals a glance at Javert, and he, of course, is looking self-satisfied. Not surprising.

An idea pops into Valjean’s head. Payback.

He flips on the turn signal and pulls to the shoulder of the highway. “I think it’s time to switch drivers,” he says, shifting the car into park. “Don’t bother buckling up.”


End file.
